I really like Mezzoblue’s latest theme. The good use of photo enhances the overall layout.

Listening to Mai Quoc Huy’s debut, Hanh Phuc Quanh Day, makes me want to strangle the shit out of that heartless bitch for him. In track one, she left his ass and the kid. In track two, she left his ass once again even though he has done nothing wrong. In track three, he finally realizes that it is time to part.

The drama gets worse as he reflects on the past. He talks to himself at night (Truc Phuong’s “Dem Tam Su”). Even the damn street he walks on carried her name (Truc Phuong’s “Con Duong Mang Ten Em”). Whenever he misses her (Hoang Mai and Thao Trang’s “Nho Nguoi Yeu”) or thinks of her (Ngoc Son’s “Nho Ve Em”), especially at the time when she was 15 (Hoang Phuong’s “Em Con Tuoi 15”), it brings back gloomy memories (To Thanh Son’s “Chut Ky Niem Buon”). Then he ends up drinking like a fish (Chau Ky’s “Tuy Ca”).

What would happen to him next is up the listeners to decide. The possibility is endless. He could drive, while under the influence, to the nearest Wal-Mart, cop a glock and blow his brain out. That way she’ll regret it for the rest of her life, and we all know she doesn’t give a damn.

Hanh Phuc Quanh Day has to be one of the most depressing albums to date. Mai Quoc Huy influenced by Che Linh so much that he could knock Truong Vu off the map and replace their god. Even if the king of “sen” Che Linh decides to retired, we will still hear his voice through his successors, and Mai Quoc Huy is the closest if not exact.

A collection of the new trend: Web Bubble Logo Land.

A collection of references regarding to commentary on the Web gathered by Jeremy Keith.

My lovely 2003 TL is now reaching 90,000 miles, and yet she still runs as smooth as she was four years ago. I haven’t had any problems with the engine at all, and regular oil change at the dealer is the only maintain give her. I don’t mind taking her to DCH Heart Acura dealer at all because my experience with them has been nothing less than exceptional. They take customer service seriously.

Doesn’t matter how much you spend on the service, you get the same treat as everyone else. In four years of just having my oil change, not once did they missed washing and vacuum my car. After paying for my service, which includes free check-and-fill fluids and recommendations, yesterday late afternoon, I walked out the parking lot and couldn’t find my car. She looked newer than an hour ago. Stepped inside and it was also cleaner than before. With all that extra touches and the regular oil change came out to $32.38. Sure, the price is higher than other auto places, but you don’t get the complimentary services. Not to mention that while you wait, drinks and snacks (bagel and cream cheese in the morning) are also free of charge.

Not have been to another dealer, I assumed that all of these add-ons are the standard in all the dealers until I went to the Toyota dealer for someone’s car, which located down the street. To my surprise, they offer nothing beyond what you paid for even when you dropped $600 on the services. No car wash. No cleaning. No free snacks. Only free coffee. I made someone jealous just by raving about how better Acura service is comparing to Toyota, yet they both owned by DCH.

Ripped up the Flava Flav show. So damn hilarious!

From iPhone Widow: “The iPhone is Cool and All, But Can You Stick Your Dick in It?”

Finch is minimal and fresh.

Rainfall Daffinson is a straight grid-based design.

Mark Boulton is open and clean.

If you ever stop and watch artists in Chinatown drawing a portrait, you’ll will enjoy Nico Di Mattia’s Speed Paintings: “an experience that includes the fusion of many areas: the drawing, the painting, the cinema, the music, and the digital technologies.” Jennifer Love Hewitt is one of my favorites.

David Sedaris’ Naked is yet another hysterical collection of his autobiographical essays. Whether being told through his firsthand experiences or direct observations, what makes Sedaris’ personal stories addictive is the dark sense of humor in his writing. Here is an excerpt from “I Like Guys” to illustrate his whimsicality:

There was a boy at camp I felt I might get along with, a Detroit native named Jason who slept on the bunk beneath mine. Jason tended to look away when talking to the other boys, shifting his eyes as though he were studying the weather conditions. Like me, he used his free time to curl into a fetal position, staring at the bedside calendar upon which he’s x-ed out all the days he had endured so far. We were finishing our 7:15 to 7:45 wash-and-rinse segment one morning when our dormitory counselor arrived for inspection shouting, “What are you, a bunch of goddamned faggots who can’t make your bed?”

I giggled out loud at his stupidity. If anyone knew how to make a bed, it was a faggot. It was the others he needed to worry about. I saw Jason laughing, too, and soon we took to mocking this counselor, referring to each other first as “faggots” and then as “stinking faggots.” We were “lazy faggots” and “sunburned faggots” before we eventually become “faggoty faggots.” We couldn’t protest the word, as that would have meant acknowledging the truth of it. The most we could do was to embrace it as a joke. Embodying the term in all its clichéd glory, we minced and pranced about the room for each other’s entertainment when the others weren’t looking. I found myself easily outperforming my teachers, who had failed to capture the proper spirit of loopy bravado inherent to the role. Faggot, as a word, was always delivered in a harsh, unforgiving tone befitting those weak or stupid enough to act upon impulses. We used it as a joke, an accusation, and finally as a dare. Late at night I’d feel my bunk buck and sway, knowing that Jason was either masturbating or beating eggs for an omelette. Is it me he’s thinking about? I’d follow his lead and wake the next morning to find our entire iron-frame unit had wandered a good eighteen inches away from the wall. Our love had the power to move bunks.